Temporal Locum Read online

  Temporal Locum

  By Wendie Nordgren

  Copyright © 2019 by Wendie Nordgren

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, places, and events are fictional and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

  www.wendienordgren.com

  Cover Design by: Victoria Cooper Art

  Books by Wendie Nordgren:

  The Wendigo Redemption Series

  Wendigo Uprising Book One

  Wendigo Hunting Book Two

  Wendigo Conjuring Book Three

  The Space Merchants Series

  The Space Merchants Book One

  The Space Merchants of Arachne Book Two

  The Parvac Emperor’s Daughter Book Three

  Omnes Videntes Book Four

  The Spider Queen Book Five

  The Inquisitors Book Six

  Thunderdrop A Space Merchants Novella

  Materfamilias Book Seven

  Ensign Probus Book Eight

  Omnes Videntes Series

  Xavier

  Jazon

  Clue Taylor Series

  Clue and The Shrine of the Widowed Bride Book One

  Clue and the Sea Dragon Book Two

  Clue and the Tree Spirits Book Three

  Novella

  Death’s Providence

  Cookbook

  Hungry for More: A Harem of Recipes

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter One

  “They’re always in a hurry from one moment and into the next until before they know it, the seconds left on their clocks rush toward their final hours. Then, they’ll be wishing for the little hand to slow, to go back and savor what they then will know. Rush. Rush. Rush.” The old man shook his head, sending the white wisps of it into motion.

  “Oh, hush! Enough of your melancholy. They’re not all like that.” The old woman tightened her grasp on his arm. She gazed up at him, and he smiled down into her lined face, giving her a wink of one of his rheumy pale-blue eyes. Returning to him a love-filled smile, she said, “Speaking of being in a hurry, if you with your sweet tooth hadn’t eaten all of our Halloween candy, we wouldn’t have had to leave our apartment to go to the store at such a busy hour.”

  Standing beside the elderly couple on the busy street corner, Bym listened to them while waiting with everyone else for the crosswalk signal’s steady, upraised orange hand to switch to the white walking man. She envied the motorists in their quick, warm vehicles as they sped by. The chill wind picked up, making the brown paper bag from the fabric store, whose handles she clutched, lift and fall against her thigh, adding its rustling sound to the cacophony of pedestrians, bicyclists, and motorists around them. The old man bumped into her, making her shopping bag crunch between them. He smiled apologetically and nodded his head in her direction, but the serious look in his watery eyes chilled her more than the currents of air which seeped beneath her layers of clothing.

  Flicking her gaze back to the crosswalk, she saw the walking man appear and stepped from the curb and down to the street. A horn blared, and a tug on the back of her jacket had her stumbling backwards and back up onto the sidewalk. Her heart thrummed in her chest as the black suburban on which she’d almost become a hood ornament sped past. Still holding her upright, she realized that the old man was far stronger than he appeared. Bym’s heart pounded as a dizzying sickness took her by the throat. The world around her seemed to splinter into millions of prismatic lights. Forced to close her eyes against the onslaught, Bym fought herself for calm, knowing her panic had been brought about with her near-death experience. She could have been killed by the vehicle as the driver had run the light. The adrenaline rushing through her peaked before dissipating and turning into an overwhelming sense of relief. After she had regained her balance, the old man released his hold on her jacket.

  “Oh, my goodness! You saved my life! Thank you so much!” she said breathlessly. Bym turned to thank him, but the old man and his wife had vanished into the crowd.

  Strolling up to stand in the vacated spot beside her, scrolling through his phone with music drowning out the world and completely oblivious to her brush with mortality, was a blond bearded guy, who like her, was waiting for the signal to change. Glancing up and across the street, she realized that she’d missed her opportunity to cross, not that the signal made it safe when drivers chose not to obey the traffic lights. What a crock.

  “Damn it,” she muttered under her breath when her own phone started chiming at her. Fumbling around in her pocket, she managed to answer before the caller could hang up. “Hello?”

  A familiar feminine voice with a cultured British accent said, “Hey, where the hell are you? I’m sitting here by myself like a pathetic bitch who got stood up.”

  Across the street, the signal changed, and staying close to the buff blond guy, Bym hurried across the street. “I’m almost there. I’m a block and a half away. Order me a large mocha with an extra shot of espresso. Please? I’ll pay you back.” Ending the call, she slid her phone into her pocket.

  She caught sight of her reflection in a store window and cringed. She looked like it was still the week of final exams. Getting up as though rushing to an eight o’clock class, she’d left this morning wearing grey jogging pants, an old baggy white T-shirt, and a dark-blue jacket that had seen better days. Unfortunately, when she had left to run errands, she hadn’t been expecting her ensemble to carry her over into the afternoon. Not only did she regret her wardrobe selection, but also what she’d done with her hair, putting it up in a messy bun with a scrunchy of all things. It wasn’t how any self-respecting aspiring fashion designer should ever leave her tiny shithole apartment. In her own defense, she hadn’t expected Monique, her study buddy and best and only friend, to call her for a coffee date.

  She walked briskly along the sidewalk, weaving around people as if they were other drivers on a highway, and she was involved in a high-speed chase. Finally, Bym reached out and grasped the cold, metal, outdated door handle and opened it to a tinkling sound of welcoming bells. The jingling sound had Monique turning from the counter with a large coffee in each hand. She’d come from London to attend the same design school as Bym, but whereas Monique’s family could afford to send their daughter anywhere in the world to study, Bym was attending by means of a grant. It had been the only perk for her in being a ward of the state. Unfortunately, Monique was ready to transfer to a school across the pond as she referred to it. She wanted Bym to come along, but to do so, she would need to win an International Textiles and Apparel Association Award because their scholarships funded semester abroad studies in London. Hence, it was another reason for Bym’s already high levels of stress. Her chance to be in consideration to participate was riding on tonight.

  Gliding ove
r to the table she’d selected like a satiated panther, Monique scrunched up her face and gave her friend a shake of her head as she looked her over from head to toe. “It’s a little early to be in costume. Isn’t it? Let me guess. You’re a homeless woman? Is this a political statement? Rather than adhering to the assignment, you want to draw attention to the deleterious effects of capitalism? You know. Without capitalism, we wouldn’t have a fashion industry. Everyone would just be moping around in an equally dreadful grey or even worse, taupe.” She shuddered as she sat at her preselected café table.

  “Ha. No.” Bym gave her friend a playful sneer. She’d have been worried if Monique hadn’t teased her a little over her outfit.

  Mischievously, Monique said, “I know! You’re going as Bym the bag lady!”

  “Again, no.” Bym shoved her bag onto a chair and then snagged a five out of her wallet, passing the bill over to Monique before taking a tentative sip of coffee. “Oh, God, that’s good.”

  “You’re welcome,” Monique said. Ever mindful of her appearance, she was wearing a tailored blue blazer with a lavender shirt beneath it. Her red lipstick was perfect as was her hair which she had chosen to wear loose.

  “I paid you for it.”

  Monique shrugged. “I’m really good at ordering things. Well, tell me. Upon what did you decide? I’m going as Cleopatra, the authentic Cleopatra, not the white one that anthropologists are trying to convince us of. Total bullshit.” She met her American friend’s eyes and waited.

  Bym gave her a nod of approval. She knew that Monique had been close to calling it all rubbish, but had confessed a desire to return to London cussing like an American. Bym had been all too eager to teach her everything she knew on the subject of expletives, and having heard Monique’s thoughts on the matter of Cleopatra previously, Bym simply nodded. “I’m going as a Celtic goddess, but it needs a few more finishing touches. After our coffee, I’m going home to work on it a little more.”

  Monique tapped at the overpriced contraption around her wrist, her fashionable fitness tracker which was currently showing the time. “Tick-tock,” she warned. Then, the bells on the door jingled and drew her attention away. “Oh, shit. Don’t look,” she warned.

  Turning her head anyway, Bym looked and immediately wished she hadn’t. It was like watching a car wreck in a mirror, and Bym was the mangled car.

  “Hello, Monique. And, who do we have here?” A fake smile full of white teeth preceded, “Who is your unfortunate friend?” Mackenzie Owens and her mean girl entourage walked inside of the coffee shop as if they owned the place, make-up, hair, and nails perfection.

  It was the worst possible cliché of every angsty teen movie binge in which Bym had ever indulged herself, and she was the underdog being surrounded by the alpha bitches. Today, their designer clothes, shoes, and bags appeared to be Chanel. Each day, the group coordinated by paying homage to a different designer. They were all so rich that they could vomit out money on whims, but all of that money couldn’t buy them any class.

  With a smile that accentuated her dimples, Mackenzie said, “Oh, I see. It’s hard to tell under all of the thrift store cast-offs. Bronwyn, is that you?” She leaned in a little closer and in a loud whisper said, “You know. If you need a few things, I can give you the address of the consignment store where I take my old clothes. Those places are there to help people like you. Why not take advantage of it?” She and her fashionable followers tittered behind their hands.

  Bym kept her lips sealed. Mackenzie had managed to find out about her grant and ever since had made a point of doing everything she could to keep Bym in her place. She didn’t think Bym deserved to attend the same institution and went out of her way to make Bym feel like a charity case. Bym had been forcing herself not to let Mackenzie get to her. After all, she’d been accepted based upon her test scores and hard work. She had as much right to an education as anyone else. Mackenzie hadn’t gotten accepted because of her wealthy and affluent family although its influence in the fashion industry couldn’t have hurt. Unfortunately, she had an affinity for merchandising and product development, more like a magical gift for it.

  “Hi, Mackenzie,” Bym said, trying to be polite and mature. Manners sucked, but she understood the importance of being polite to someone who might one day be her boss. The importance of being couth was lost on Monique who “accidentally” kicked Bym in the shin under the guise of crossing her legs under the table. “What was that for?” she asked after pushing her chair back a few inches from the table and her friend’s killer pointed-toe stilettos.

  Monique raised an index finger at her for quiet, and a chastised Bym frowned in response. “Why do you insist on being polite to this overly matched twat?” Bym’s face lost all color, but Monique wasn’t finished. She turned her full attention on Mackenzie who was practically rabid with fury. “This is a coffee shop, but it isn’t quite the thing for satisfying someone like you, a cum-guzzling cock-thirsty thunder cunt. Your needs might be better met in an alley on the other side of town.”

  Glaring at her, Mackenzie said, “Fuck you. You’re trash. The two of you belong together.”

  “We’re are nothing of the sort. All you’ve ever done is treat Bym like shite, cutting her down at every opportunity. I’ve had it. If she won’t stand up for herself, I will. She’s got raw talent which you refuse to recognize. It’s no longer the middle ages. These days, individuals can improve their standing on their own merits. Get with the times, or stay out of our way.”

  Bym tried to huddle into herself while continuing to listen to every single word. She began to wonder if the feud between the two of them was really about her or something else entirely. However, as soon as it began, it ended as if something silent passed between them before it could turn to blows.

  Mackenzie said, “We’ll see tonight. Won’t we?”

  “We will, and when she wins for best costume design, I’ll expect for you to apologize for all of the semesters you’ve bullied her.”

  Mackenzie sneered at her. “Why are you wasting your time with this little nobody? She’s not like us. She comes from nothing, is nothing, and will never be anyone.”

  Monique said, “Your mommy and her money will only be able to get you so far.”

  Leaning in close, Mackenzie said, “You’re right. She’ll buy my way to the very top, and I’ll keep worthless trash like her from getting close by kicking her down as soon as she starts to gain any popular support. You’d be amazed by what a few influencers can accomplish when you’re taking out the competition.” Turning an evil smile to Bym, she said, “The only way you’ll be able to make a living in this industry is as my bitch. If you want to survive, I’ll expect you to show it tonight by getting down on your knees. Got that, cunt?” Straightening to her full height, she said, “Come on, girls. Something in here smells like shit.” She turned her back and walked toward the door.

  Bym felt herself turning cold with futile rage. Even though she’d always tried to be polite and stay off of Mackenzie’s radar, it would never be enough. The bitch would seek her out and tear her down no matter what she did or how she behaved. Trying to placate her wasn’t working. Mackenzie wanted total submission. She wanted a puppet. Other than being poor, she didn’t know what she’d ever done to make an enemy of her, but that was what she was and always would be. She’d just made it far too clear for Bym to try to excuse it as paranoia on her own part. Something within her snapped, forcing her to realize the futility not only of ever forming a truce with her nemesis but of ever seeing her dreams coming to fruition. Mackenzie would never allow it to happen. She had everything and didn’t want to share, not even a scrap. As one of the threads of her own fate snapped, she felt her arm lift. Then, her large disposable cup was sailing through the air, hitting Mackenzie square between the shoulder blades and splattering its contents all over the back of her designer jacket, saturating the ends of her hair, and dripping down her skirt to puddle around her heels on the floor.

  Monique sta
red at Bym in shock. “Nice.”

  Mackenzie’s cohorts cried out, totally aghast, and then started grabbing thin paper napkins, trying to control the damage. While they blotted at the mess, Bym grabbed her things and shoved past them on her way out.

  “You stupid bitch! You’ll pay for this,” Mackenzie, her arms raised to keep her sleeves dry, yelled.

  “I’ve already paid enough, thirsty bitch.” Bym slammed the door open and headed back to her tiny apartment.

  After years of busting her ass in design school and countless hours serving as an intern, she knew it had all been a waste of time. Like the old man on the corner had said, she’d been rushing and working, but it had all been pointless. She’d poured her soul into every design she’d ever made, spent hours sewing one garment or another either by machine or by hand, and none of her tireless efforts mattered. She’d probably never know what she’d done to inspire the hatred of Mackenzie and her clique, but they would never tire of doing everything they could to make her a failure. It didn’t matter how good she was or how unique. It wasn’t until she’d closed her apartment door behind her and slammed the deadbolt into place that she allowed herself to fully realize what she’d just done. Her phone hadn’t chimed with the ringtone she’d assigned to Monique, but knowing her she was probably busy with happily recording the fallout.

  Closing her eyes, she rested her forehead against the chipped paint of her door. She’d acted just like they’d wanted her to act. Once word of what she’d done got back to Mackenzie’s mother, one of the lead designers in one of the most prominent fashion houses on the east coast, Bym would be lucky to get a job cleaning scraps from a cutting room floor of a knock-off retailer.

  “Oh, no. What have I done? Why do I have to be so stupid?” The door thudded as she hit her head against it. “Bym, classy, not trashy. Classy, not trashy. Stupid. Stupid. I wish I could take it all back.”

  Suddenly, a dizziness, like what she’d experienced after her brush with death, washed over her, but no one was there to catch her as she crumpled to the floor, overcome by millions of prismatic lights. Then, they all vanished behind a veil of darkness.